“I—­I can’t say,” he answered
slowly at length, as we thanked the Morgue keeper
for his courtesy and left the place. “In
fact I’d rather not say—­until I know.”

I knew from previous experiences that it was of no
use to try to quiz Kennedy. He was a veritable
Gradgrind for facts, facts, facts. As for myself,
I could not help wondering whether, after all, Murtha
might not have been the victim of foul play—­and,
if so, by whom?

XXII

THE CANARD

We did not have to wait long for the secret of the
robbery of Carton to come out. It was not in
any “extras,” or in the morning papers
the next day, but it came through a secret source of
information to the Reform League.

“A clerk in the employ of the organization who
is really a detective employed by the Reform League,”
groaned Carton, as he told us the story himself the
next morning at his office, “has just given
us the information that they have prepared a long and
circumstantial story about me—­about my intimacy
with Mrs. Ogleby and Murtha and some others.
The story of the robbery of my study is in the papers
this morning. To-morrow they plan to publish some
photographs—­alleged to have been stolen.”

“Photographs—­Mrs. Ogleby,”
repeated Kennedy. “Real ones?”

“No,” exclaimed Carton quickly, “of
course not—­fakes. Don’t you
see the scheme? First they lay a foundation in
the robbery, knowing that the public is satisfied
with sensations, and that they will be sure to believe
that the robbery was put up by some muckrakers to
obtain material for an expose. I wasn’t
worried last night. I knew I had nothing to conceal.”

“Then what of it?” I asked naively.

“A good deal of it,” returned Carton excitedly,
“The story is to be, as I understand it, that
the fake pictures were among those stolen from me
and that in a roundabout way they came into the possession
of someone in the organization, without their knowing
who the thief was. Of course they don’t
know who took them and the original plates or films
are destroyed, but they’ve concocted some means
of putting a date on them early in the spring.”

“What are they that they should take such pains
with them?” persisted Kennedy, looking fixedly
at Carton.

Carton met his look without flinching. “They
are supposed to be photographs of myself,” he
repeated. “One purports to represent me
in a group composed of Mrs. Ogleby, Murtha, another
woman whom I do not even know, and myself. I
am standing between Murtha and Mrs. Ogleby and we
look very familiar. Another is a picture of the
same four riding in a car, owned by Murtha. Oh,
there are several of them, of that sort.”